


In the Dread of the Night

by argallel



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Coulson has a heart, Insomnia, Sensory Perception, Top Gear, Unsure Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5868241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argallel/pseuds/argallel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His fist opened and shut in a pattern, and he took a minute to answer. “I can’t, I can’t…. stop it.” He spun on his heel and began to pace again, stopping momentarily to drink some water and feel it going down. “Okay, okay, okay. I have to… okay, okay, I have to repeat. Okay, okay, okay.” It was really too cold to be in just a t-shirt, and Fitz shivered, but he relished the sensation."<br/>In which Fitz has night-induced anxiety, and Coulson struggles to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dread of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Good Lord, this was a difficult piece to write. I based it off my own experiences with bad nights, and just writing it got me all antsy.  
> If you don't like strong language, turn back now.

Fitz stared at the television half-heartedly, pillow clutched to his chest. On the screen, the Top Gear presenters poked fun at each other. Fitz squeezed the pillow. 

He needed a drink. Beside him sat a cup of water, and he took a sip, noting the way it felt as the liquid carved a path to his jittery stomach. Ground yourself. His feet touched the floor- wooden, cool. The pillow in his arms was made from some sort of polyester and it felt rough, each fibre scratching and groaning as he squeezed in time to his heartbeat.

He stood up quickly and began to pace.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he whispered, barely louder than the almost silent television. “It’s nothing. It is literally nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.” Something happened on screen, and for a moment, he was distracted. Then, he wasn’t. “Asshole. You’re an asshole. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Concentrate.

With every step he took he could feel the soles of feet give slightly. The air about him was dry- no discernable smells. No air flow, either. He needed a window. He needed to be outside, oh god, oh god. Water. Take a drink of water and feel it as it goes down. That’s another sensation.

Fitz reached up and scrubbed a hand through his hair, and then did it again, harder, trying to focus on that stimulation. “Nope.” A slight tug at his curly locks rewarded him with a stinging sensation, and for a moment, his brain focused solely on that feeling. “Focus, idiot,” he hissed. “Can you feel that? Focus, focus. Everything else is just white noise. Focus, focus, focus.”

“Fitz?”

He wheeled around, shocked, every nerve in his body tingling to a tilting tune. “Coulson,” he said with a sigh. “Coulson, it’s- it’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s me.” Coulson stepped out of the shadows and closer to the engineer, concern written all over his face. “It’s three am- what are you doing up?”

“Up, up, up, yes.” Fitz rubbed forcefully at his head again. “Right. I could ask you the same question.” He spun on his heel. Focus on the feeling of the slick wooden floors under your foot. Notice the slight vestibular changes as your mind tries to figure out which direction you’re going in.

“I heard some noises down here,” Coulson said, surveying the room. “Even brought my strongest hand.” He held up his prosthetic arm with his real arm, a smile on his lips that didn’t reach his eyes. He glanced over at the television. “That’s Top Gear, right? I’ve never understood that show.”

By this point, Fitz was only half listening. Feel the sensations. His mind was like a formula one track, every car it’s own thought racing through his mind. He shivered. 

“Fitz?”

His fist opened and shut in a pattern, and he took a minute to answer. “I can’t, I can’t…. stop it.” He spun on his heel and began to pace again, stopping momentarily to drink some water and feel it going down. “Okay, okay, okay. I have to… okay, okay, I have to repeat. Okay, okay, okay.” It was really too cold to be in just a t-shirt, and Fitz shivered, but he relished the sensation.

It was silent for a minute. “Repeat?”

“I’m okay.” He forced himself to sit down on the couch and look at the television, as if he was actually watching it. “Fine, fine, fine. Just watching a bit of Top Gear.” The scratchy pillow was just off to his side and he grabbed it, squeezing it in time to his heartbeat. Under his breath he whispered, “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

Coulson slowly padded over to the couch and lowered himself next to Fitz, but not so close as to be uncomfortable. He fixed his eyes on the television. “What country are they in right now?”

“Burma. They’re in Burma.”

“And is that…” Coulson trailed off momentarily, looking around for the remote. When he found it, he turned the volume up just enough so they could almost hear what was going on. “He’s riding in a truck with a- is that a church pew as a seat?” He waited for a minute and then continued. “Okay, so a short guy with a stained wife beater is riding in a truck on a church pew with no seatbelt on.”

Fitz cracked each of his knuckles individually, took a drink of water, and squeezed the pillow. “Yeah, that’s Richard Hammond.” You’re okay. Okay, okay, okay. “The rude guy is Jeremy Clarkson, and the old boring guy is James May.” Okay. Okay. “The show’s been cancelled, ‘cause Jeremy punched a producer in the face.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, save for the muted sounds of three British men berating each other. Neither Fitz nor Coulson were really watching the screen. Coulson was too busy going through the hundreds of protocols that were jammed in his head, cursing silently when he couldn’t come up with one that he could use to diffuse this situation. Shield had a lot protocols, but they were all for military tactics, alien invasions, and what to do if your cover is blown while in a German submarine off the coast of Australia. But none of them dealt with what to do when your engineer was in some sort of unidentifiable mental distress in the middle of the night.

So Coulson did the only thing he could think of; he sat there and hoped his presence was enough.

Eventually, Fitz’s breathing evened out, and he stopped squeezing the pillow he was holding quite so violently. “Thanks, Coulson,” he said quietly. Then, as an afterthought, “It’s the middle of the night, and you’re down here with me instead of sleeping, so… yeah. Thanks.”

“Fitz,” Coulson turned to face the younger man, “anytime of day or night, you need me, I’ll be here for you.” Again, it was quiet. He thought for a moment before he spoke, trying to figure out if it was his place to say anything. “I don’t know what goes on inside that brain of yours, hell, I don’t even know what goes on inside my brain anymore, but-”

“Yeah, I know.” The ending theme music of Top Gear played faintly in the background. “But what you just…” he trailed off. “Not every night is like this. Just a few. It’s okay. ”

“Is it really okay? Or have you just convinced yourself that it’s okay?”

Fitz stood up quickly and once again began to pace. “Look, I’ve done this all before, okay? I went to see people, I took the medication they prescribed, and it didn’t help! Yeah, yeah, so my mind stopped going batshit crazy and running on speed! But do you know what that means? Do you know what it did to me?”

Coulson sighed as Fitz ran a hand aggressively through his hair. “Your brain wasn’t working like it used to,” he said quietly.

The tv shut off as Fitz stabbed the remote forcefully. “I may be crazy, but that’s who I am.” He could feel his heart beating faster and faster, and his brain began to stutter again. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Water, he needed water.

But as he turned around to grab his cup, his favourite thermochromic cup, he found himself face to face with Coulson, who had his water hostage. His heart flipped and he tapped his fingers on his thigh in a rapid, tightly controlled pattern. Focus, focus on another sensation. You’re fine. You just went through this, and you were fine. So you’re okay now. Okay, okay, okay.

“Fitz.”

Cup. “Can I please have my cup?” Cup, cup, cup.

“Leo.” He looked up. Coulson put the water down, and fished his phone out of his pocket. A couple taps later, he held it out. “Try this.” Fitz took the phone. On the screen was some sort of spatial awareness puzzle game. He pressed the play button and began the first puzzle.

Twenty minutes later, and he could feel himself calm down. His brain was no longer stuck on repeat, and he felt less like he needed to run laps around the underground base.

“Alright?” Coulson asked eventually.

“Yeah.” Fitz looked up from the game. “Yeah. How did you know this would help?”

Coulson shrugged. “I didn’t, but I figured it was worth a shot. Whenever I’m stressed out, I like to play a couple levels of this game. It’s easy enough that I’m not frustrated by it, but it’s hard enough that my mind is occupied.” A digital clock shone brightly in the darkness, proclaiming it was 5am. The sun would be up soon, and Coulson had no doubt May was already getting up to start her morning routine. He rolled his shoulders, trying to get the stiffness out of them.

“Here.” Fitz held out the phone, but the older man shook his head.

“Keep it for now.” He gave the engineer a nod. “I’ll get it back later.” Then, with a faint smile, “Now, go get some sleep. I don’t want to see you until lunch.” Fitz went to protest, but Coulson cut him off. “That’s an order, Agent Fitz.”

“Yes, sir.”

And with that, they parted ways, Coulson to try and get another hour of sleep before May kicked his ass out of bed, and Fitz, to his own room, phone in hand.

Maybe, just maybe, he might actually be okay after all.


End file.
